If ye'd faced Wellington or brave Lord Clyde,
They'd gart ye keep your place an' cou't your pride.
Your sangs o' liberty are bosh an' tee-dum;
It wad be better baith for you an' freedom
If ye had ne'er cut up the auld connection,
Nor snool't tae democratic mob direction.
Ye'll ne'er hae peace until ye get a king—
A coup d'etat for you's the vera thing;
There's Nap. the Third, wha whamel't bluidy France,
An' hauds her doon-had ane like him the chance,
He'd grip the reins, wi' bit an' bridle haud ye,
An' should ye rear or kick, he'd whip an' daud ye.
An' gif ye maun be sodgers, he will learn ye—
But ye'll needs dae his biddin', min' I warn ye;
For fock that canna guide nor rule themsel',
Should hae a ruler strong, an' stern, an' snell.
WHAT Woe is thine, pale mother?-say
What grief devours thy heart? For aye
Thy looks averted shun the day,
And midnight sees thee watch and pray
With sighing, quivering breath.
The hand of wedded love to clasp-
To feel true friendship's fervent grasp
Is thine. Why, then, with sob and gasp
Still heaves thy heart, as sting of asp
Had struck the pang of death?
"Oh, lost! lost! lost!-the loved, the young
On dark perdition's torrent flung-
With maddened brain and hearts unstrung
O'er deepest gulf of ruin swung,
And I-I cannot save!
O! minstrel King, thy soul-wrung cry
Draws from my heart a deep reply—
My sons, my sons! each burdened sigh
My sons, my sons! breathes to the sky-
My God, thy help I crave!
"My gentle boys-obedient, fond-
How oft around my knees ye conned
The Book which taught all names beyond
His name to bless whose blood atoned
For guilt of fallen man!
How blessed the time when work and play
Alternate shared the hours of day!
Till pillowed cheek to cheek ye lay,
And mother o'er you stooped to pray,
As only mother can."
But, ah! on clouds of grief and shame,
To this dear home a demon came-
The undying worm, the quenchless flame
Are thine, Intemperance; at the name
The lesser fiends rejoice.
Well hath the dark-souled poet said-
"More sad than wail above the dead
Are words by living sorrow fed:”
Such breathe o'er lost inebriate's head
From mourning mother's voice.
The song, the dance, the wanton's love,
May fail the young desires to move;
But fiercer ordeal they must prove,
Launched on the world, who rise above
The tempter's proffer'd cup.
They fell, for guileless youth what hope?
Urged, bantered, drawn, nay,. forced to cope
With senior mates in yard or shop:
Workmen, these human offerings stop
To Moloch offered up.
O JEANIE, my woman! whar is't ye are gaun,
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
And ye speak na a word, but jist murther an' greet.
Yer ae drogget coat is baith scrimpy an' worn,
An' yer aul leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broun hair.
Yer wee shilpit weanie's a pityfu' prufe
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,
For he draws the red bluid frae yer hert an' yer face.
Waesucks for ye, Jeanie! I kent ye fu' weel
When a lass; ye war couthie, an' cantie', an' leal:
Wi' cheeks like the roses, yer bonnie blue ee,
Aye glancin' an' dancin' wi' daffin an' glee.
They tauld
ye that Davie was keen o' the drink,
That siller ne'er baid in his pouches a blink;
An' a' he got claut o' he waret on the dram,
An' ae pay ne'er sert till anither ane cam.
But ye wadna be warnt, sae yer wierd ye maun dree,
Tho' aften ye raither wad lie doun an' dee;
For o' puir drucken Davie ye've nae houp ava,
Sae yer greetin', an' toilin', an' fechtin' awa.
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